


i wait by the front steps for your return

by thelyssymarie



Series: shadows settle on the place that you left [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek's Loft, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 14:17:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7644253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelyssymarie/pseuds/thelyssymarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been over a month since Derek had told Stiles he was coming back to Beacon Hills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i wait by the front steps for your return

**Author's Note:**

> lmao i still haven't watched 5B consider this an au loosely based on what i think i know about it
> 
> title from the song grow by frances

A wavering, ghostly whistle somewhere in the vicinity of _high-fucking-up_ cuts through the sparse loft, slowly rousing Stiles from his doze where he’s sprawled out across the purple comforter, hazy light from the streetlamps outside stretching through the space and casting dramatic shadows across the floor. Dimly, he recognizes that he’s fallen asleep in Derek’s bed again while researching, and he fumbles clumsily around the mattress in search of his phone, wincing as his laptop slides off his stomach and onto the concrete floor with dull thud. It’s late, that much he can tell, and he’s positive that the sun was still making its slow descent through the sky when he had nodded off. His dad is going to kill him.

Harsh artificial light makes him squint as his phone comes to life, and through his still sleep-bleary eyes, Stiles stares at the bright 1:53 AM shining on the screen, unapologetic, as if it’s perfectly fine to be asleep in someone else’s bed in the early hours of a Wednesday morning just weeks into senior year. _Shit_. 

There are four missed calls and twice as many texts waiting for him, most of them from his Dad with the exception of three; two from Scott and one from Derek. He opens Derek’s first, the time stamp reading 7 hours ago, knowing that the others will be people asking him where he is and why he’s not home, and not willing or able to deal with them in his half-awake state.

_No, the rougarou has more vampiric tendencies than what you’re describing. I’ll try to keep looking into it while I’m still here, but I would look for another lead._

Stiles sighs in frustration. Another dead end is the last thing he needs right now. He'd asked Derek to look into the possibility of a _rougarou_ a week ago, and when he finally responds it's to tell Stiles that one more thing on his dwindling list of ideas is a dud.

He opens Scott’s next, the first being the expected _dude where are you??_ In the background, the wind blows through the cracked window pane again, the whistle grating on Stiles' tired ears. The second text offers a wave of relief, and Stiles slumps back on Derek’s pillows, running a tired hand through his hair as he skims his father’s messages, confirming that Scott has notified the sheriff that Stiles will be spending the night at the McCall house so the two of them can work on college essays. 

Scott and Stiles’ relationship has been rocky, to put it mildly, over the past few weeks. Scott _is_ his best friend, regardless of Theo’s thoughts on the matter, but Stiles is not so quick to forgive Scott for the massive loss of trust between them. Stiles’ father had almost died, _died_ , all because Scott didn’t trust Stiles enough to just listen to his misgivings about Theo, which had been proven to be _totally warranted_ , thank you very much. They have been making an effort to heal the jagged hole that has been torn into their relationship, but it’s slow going. Stiles is grateful for this newest attempt to patch things up; worrying his dad while he’s supposed to be recovering is the farthest thing from what Stiles wants to do right now. 

Actually, all he wants right now is to fall back asleep. Well. And to figure out what the hell their newest monster of the week is. And for his nightmares to stop. And for his dad to never have been dragged into the freakshow that is Stiles’ life. And for everything to go back to the way it was before Theo Fucking Raeken showed up in Beacon Hills.

And for Derek to come home.

With a heaving sigh, that is probably a _bit_ excessive considering that he’s alone in the loft, Stiles drags himself out of the tangled bedding and makes his way towards the rickety spiral steps leading to the kitchen upstairs, detouring to cross out _rougarou_ on the list of potential creatures that he’s been painstakingly narrowing down over the last few weeks, bringing the number of possible leads on the new board he’s installed in Derek’s living room down to three. The chill from the concrete floor seeps into the soles of his feet as he walks, footsteps echoing as he trudges up the stairs. 

He resolutely doesn't think about a flooded apartment and one of his maybe-not-really-but-sort-of friends bleeding out, Derek's claws digging underneath his ribs as Cora screams. He doesn't think of the brick like lead in his stomach as he forces himself to acknowledge that he may be the villain, a key glowing an eerie fluorescent blue-green in his shaking fingers. He doesn't think about his voice alternately begging his father to help him and shouting at Chris Argent to shoot him, fierce power and sadistic joy at screwing with these weak little humans warring with the raw scrape of his consciousness across his mind as he fights for control of his own body, Allison's pale face staring back at him, taser hanging loosely from her hand, Derek groaning on the floor behind him. 

The kitchen is tiny, with miniature appliances and barely enough counter space to do anything with, something which Stiles was appalled to discover last September when he first broke into Derek’s loft, breaking in being a relative term considering that Stiles did have a key, albeit one Derek was unaware of. He hadn’t been amused to return home only to find his loft smelling like half a dozen teenagers had been in and out regularly, but in Stiles humble opinion, Derek should have been expecting it. Stiles isn’t exactly subtle when it comes to his unrepentant breaking of the rules when it suits his needs. He’s got keys to all of the pack’s houses, the school, the police station, and the animal clinic, so the fact that he stole and cut a copy of Derek’s keys shouldn’t be surprising to anyone who has spent even a short amount of time with him. Derek had bitched about it, threatened and glared at Stiles like that still had any effect on him whatsoever, but never actually took the key away. It might have been because Derek knew Stiles would just make new ones. But maybe, just maybe, he didn’t actually mind.

Now Stiles shuffles across the tiny space, sparing a glance to the closed door of Derek’s office in the far wall as he edges around the island that takes up the center of the room, before searching through the cabinets for a clean mug. The majority of them are scattered about downstairs, stained with coffee from long nights spent awake researching and skyping Derek to bounce ideas off each other. The first time they had done so while Stiles had been in the loft, Derek had raised an eyebrow, but moved on with no more than a “lock up when you leave,” and that had been that. 

Stiles finds two mugs in the back of the highest shelf, and selects the one that says ‘Alpha Bitch’ in curling purple letters, a gift from Erica before Deucalion’s pack had showed up in town and ripped away what little semblance of peace they had accomplished before anyone could catch their breath. He sets the mug on the counter and digs around in the cabinets until he finds the sugar and cocoa, and whisks it together with the last of the milk in a saucepan, setting it on the stove to heat. The motions are automatic, practically second nature at this point. He spent countless nights up making hot chocolate with his mother when neither of them could sleep, and when she’d been admitted to the hospital in her last days, Stiles had continued doing it on his own until he could do the whole process in his sleep, muscle memory moving him along when his mind could not.

Absently, Stiles thinks that he’ll have to restock the fridge soon, because it’s not like Derek is here to do it himself. It’s been over a month since Derek had told Stiles he was coming back to Beacon Hills, and Stiles is seriously starting to doubt if he ever will. Last he heard from Derek he was in New Orleans, investigating leads for Stiles while trying to avoid the hunters that had been tailing him since he passed through Texas on his way back from visiting Cora one last time in Argentina. The Davis family is relentless, always no more than a week behind him, if Derek even gets that lucky, determined to take him out. They're one of those families that are indiscriminate when it comes to supernatural beings—all must die for the good of mankind. No exceptions. The fact that they're tracking Derek sets Stiles of edge. He doesn't miss the startling similarities between the family’s ideology and that of Kate and Gerard Argent. 

Derek had opted for heading east to New Orleans, not wanting to lead them back to the pack and hoping that he would be able to lay low in the Crescent City among the not altogether surprisingly high supernatural population of the French Quarter. When Stiles had last texted him, Derek had just gotten settled in the city. He hadn't heard back from him until Derek's text tonight, which while helpful, if not disappointing, for their current giant wolf monster problem, did not give Stiles any information about Derek's condition or when—or if, he supposes—he’ll be able to get back to Beacon Hills. For all Stiles knows, Derek won't ever be able to return, preferring a life on the run to bringing danger back to what's left of their makeshift family, the cracked and crumbling remains of the packs-turned-pack Derek and Scott have built. Derek’s message made it seem like he’s planning to leave New Orleans soon. Stiles wonders where he'll go next. Perhaps he'll try to disappear into the acrid asphalt and glass streets of New York City, Derek's second home. 

When at last steam is curling out of his mug, the scent of cocoa drifting through the cold industrial smell of the loft, Stiles lets himself shuffle back downstairs, sipping at his drink as he goes, and makes a beeline for the worn sofa where he plans to collapse and wallow in his thoughts until he can sleep again. 

The screech and sliding scrape of a door Stiles hadn't gotten around to doing something about brings him to a halt, limbs locked, still as stone. Dimly, he reminds himself that he needs to breathe, but it's hard to do anything as he stares across the loft at the door that has been tugged open. Or, more importantly, the man standing in it, duffle slung over one arm and signature leather jacket stretched taut across his shoulders. There’s a bruise already mostly faded on his cheekbone, a still healing scrape on his jaw, and stubble covers his cheeks, dark hair sticking every which way as his hazel eyes meet Stiles’ with a mixture of surprise and exhaustion. 

Without thinking, Stiles blindly reaches out to his left and sets his mug down on the metal table in the middle of the room. He doesn't quite succeed, and the mug clatters against the tabletop as hot chocolate drips down onto the floor, warm and sticky as it seeps between Stiles bare toes. 

And then he is moving, slowly at first, still unsure if this is real or if he's dreaming, but then Derek takes a step forward and Stiles is running, tripping over himself, feet slapping loudly across the floor and he's here, he's _here_ , Derek is here, home, and Stiles is never, _ever_ letting him go. 

Strong arms wrap around him tentatively before giving in and pulling Stiles against him tightly, nose burying itself in Stiles’ neck, as Stiles continues to stare uncomprehendingly at the open loft door, hands fisted desperately into the back of Derek's jacket. 

It takes him a few tries to force words out of his throat before he manages a choked, “How are you—?” and cuts himself off again, unable to finish the thought. His chest is tight with a whirlwind of emotions, dizzying and electrifying. Confusion, joy, anger, relief, the steady pulse of _why why why, how is he here_ thrums behind his rib cage. 

Derek hums into this neck and doesn’t respond. Stiles allows it, too overwhelmed to process much else at the moment. He stands, hands clutching, arms trembling, time stretching out before him as they take each other in, Stiles reveling in Derek’s presence which had been so achingly absent from his life these past few months. 

Stiles doesn't know how much time has passed when Derek finally speaks. 

“You're going to have to clean that up, you know,” he murmurs, voice rough and familiar as it echoes faintly through the open space. 

“Shut _up_ ,” Stiles groans into his shoulder. “Shut up, shut up, shut _up_.”

Derek’s chest shakes as he chuckles, and Stiles finds himself smiling, genuinely _smiling_ for the first time in recent memory. Derek is here. 

Stiles is home. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!  
> [tumblr](http://thelyssymarie.tumblr.com)


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